


Blame It On the Mistletoe

by soixantecroissants



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, missing year!, mistletoe and misunderstandings!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soixantecroissants/pseuds/soixantecroissants
Summary: Robin searches for the perfect way to earn a kiss from someone special while Regina glowers her way through the holiday, pretending not to care who that special someone might (or might not) be. A Missing Year Christmas. Written for OQ Advent 2017.





	Blame It On the Mistletoe

It’s almost Christmas, she’s forced to remind herself for no less than the tenth time that evening. It’s time for tinsel and holly and good will towards others, not for simmering tempers or the plotting of multiple deaths in the castle – well, just the one. She’d happily settle for one at the moment.

 _Christmas_ , Regina.

She takes a deep breath.

“Not a creature was stirring,” she carries on reading, more firmly this time as she flips to the following page. “Not even a—”

There’s more muffled giggling from one corner of the drawing room. The same insufferable corner that’s been trying on Regina’s last nerve for the better part of her evening, with all that maddening cheer and those secretive grins about whatever the hell they’ve been whispering away to each other.

“Regina?” pipes up a small voice by her ear, and the tension snaps between her shoulders, sapping right back out of her. “Not even a what?”

Big brown eyes blink expectantly up at her as she tilts her head down toward the boy – something creaking with the effort – and gives him a full-watted smile, as though she hasn’t just been glaring most murderously at his father on the other side of the room.

“Not even a _mouse_ ,” Regina tells Roland in a theatrical hush, and he looks rapt at the idea, wiggling closer to examine the book’s illustrations, a whole family of mice fast asleep in a tiny plaid mitten. “The stockings were hung by the chimney with care…”

Another bit of stifled laughter, and any hopes of St. Nicholas soon being there are ground to a halt as Regina clamps her teeth together, endeavoring not to explode.

She’d tasked the thief with stringing the garland – what should have been a quite simple thing, considering his qualifications as a forest person with some presumed knowledge of trees. She’d told him as much when he questioned her confidence that he could be something of use for a change, and she’d even been gracious enough to ignore him when he had the audacity to smile at her answer.

He was right, as it turns out. She should have known better than to trust him with this.

He’d apparently enlisted some help in one Belle and a Ruby, the three of them disappearing shortly after supper and returning long after what seemed entirely reasonable to Regina, looking flushed from the cold but pleased with their fresh armfuls of pine. They’d sat themselves down on a set of cushions closest to the hearth, and there they’ve been cozily huddled ever since, the box of ribbons and bells Regina had brought them forgotten on the floor as they sip on warm drinks and laugh about some story Robin’s just told them.

Belle’s response has Robin’s eyes crinkling with a half-held smile, and then he’s turning an ear toward Ruby as she chimes in and places a familiar hand on his knee, squeezing affectionately there.

“There’s a special plant for that, you know,” Ruby is saying, with a suggestive arch of an eyebrow at him, and then she seems to realize too late how loudly she’s just spoken, shrinking slyly into her mug with a not-so-sorry grin to match. Even Snow glances up from her knitting – an assortment of red woolly stockings already piled high by her armchair – and looks at her curiously, to which Ruby winks back before mouthing a mischievous _Later_ that has Belle fighting a grin of her own.

Robin, however, is looking thoughtful all of a sudden, biting his lip as though he would have quite liked to know more if not for the audience they’ve made.

It would take almost no effort at all, thinks Regina, a mere flick of her wrist and those pointy pine needles could inflict some real damage, remind him of the work to be done instead of all this shameless flirting, ruining storytime with Roland and – speaking of Roland—

The boy is not so subtly craning his head over the book in her lap, in a clear attempt to see for himself what all this fuss with the “sugar plums” must be about, and Regina feels the anger leak out of her again, a nagging guilt filling up in its place.

“Here, why don’t we try this.” Regina scoots Roland back a little, liberating the book and standing it onto its spine for a second. With a wave of her free hand, the book gives a rustling shake before bouncing to hover mid-air in front of them, blocking the rest of the room from view. Its pages flatten of their own accord, and the sugar plums begin to dance a jerky stop-motion dance around slumbering children’s bonneted heads.

“Whoa,” says Roland a moment later when the book, quivering again, turns the page onto an open window and blows out a dusting of snowflakes at them.

He dabs a finger delightedly at each glittering clump on his clothes (“Look, Regina, it’s gone!”), and she smiles, feeling pleased that they finally have this small bit of space to themselves. She simply can’t be bothered with anything else, really, beyond the approach of St. Nick’s miniature sleigh, and the whoop Roland makes at the sight of his eight flying reindeer.

He nestles himself more snugly into the crook of her elbow while she narrates their little movie to him. It’s easier now to imagine those coy murmured sounds at the other end of the room as nothing but meaningless noise, and more than once Regina even almost-smiles to hear Leroy’s voice booming nearby, tipsily heckling Friar Tuck over a half glass of sherry and what otherwise would have been a rather solemn game of chess.

The animations have slowed their progress considerably, but Roland doesn’t seem to mind – quite the opposite, in fact, requesting that they turn the same page back several times to see St. Nick get stuck partway down the chimney yet again before tumbling out with a comical _thunk!_ , like a plunger losing its suction, spraying up soot and spilling his satchel of toys.

“One more time?” Roland asks with hopeful, pleading eyes, and Regina looks apologetically at St. Nick as he stops brushing flecks of ash from his beard and sags his shoulders resignedly at them.

The reindeer, in their restless trotting along the roof of the book, eventually discover that they can leap right off the edge of the cover and into Roland’s lap, cantering about and thoroughly distracting the boy for a while, leaving St. Nick to unpack his toys at his leisure.

He’s looking quite jolly, smoking up a storm with his pipe and helping himself to another chunk of cookie when Robin’s silhouette looms into focus overhead. His expression is rueful but knowing as he gazes down at his son, and surely enough, Regina glances at Roland to find him blinking blearily up at them both, looking a bit sleep-dazed as she sits him upright. The reindeer, dozing in random folds of his cloak, stir drowsily, ears twitching as they stretch out wobbly legs.

“No, not yet,” Roland protests when Regina signals a hand for the book to close and stow itself away, and it might have sounded halfway convincing if not for his poorly stifled yawn punctuating the end of it.

St. Nick gives Roland a wave of goodbye before corralling his reindeer back to their sleigh, and they’re about to take flight – hooves scraping over the parchment, kicking up the last bit of snow – when the covers fold closed, tucking them all out of sight.

Roland looks despondent until Regina taps him gently on the nose, promising to pick up where they’d left off tomorrow, and then she’s scooping him onto her hip as she stands.

“Thank you, for spending the evening with him,” Robin tells her, and it’s then that she notices the full ropes of garland twined in one hand, fragrant branches of pine festooned with her bells and fastened together with red satin bows. Burrowed amongst the needles are tiny pine cones she hadn’t seen them bring in, suspended in place by drizzles of wax that could only have come from a drawer in her study.

Behind him, Ruby and Belle are nowhere in sight, but the chairs they had occupied are overflowing in wreathy mounds of garland now, looking half-alive in the crackle of firelight, and Regina lets the memories wrap around her and tighten for a moment, the scents of spiced apple, warm laughter in the kitchen, hot cocoa dashed with cinnamon as the whipped cream sinks and melts away.

“He’s quite fond of your company,” Robin continues, and Regina’s gaze snaps back to his with what she hopes is an indifferent expression. “He has also wondered on several occasions why no one else can tell a story quite like His Majesty can.”

“They can’t,” says Roland, turning round solemn eyes on her, and she feels herself crack open with a smile at that.

Robin is delicately setting his whorls of garland onto the end table next to her, arms held out for his son as she passes him carefully over. Roland immediately tucks his head beneath Robin’s chin, face pressing into his neck with a deep, sleepy sigh, and Regina, feeling slightly chilled without that warmth bundled into her side, fights the instinct to cross her arms over her belly instead.

Robin catches her glancing toward the garland again, his smile going crooked with something like shyness as he asks her, “How do they look?”

“Passable,” she says stiffly, closer to the truth than she might have allowed had Roland not been curled up in his arms, blinking those heavy eyelashes at her.

“I confess I had help,” Robin explains needlessly, scratching a hand over the back of his head with a sheepish expression.

“I can see that.”

“Actually I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter,” he goes on, even managing to look halfway chagrined about it, and she wonders why he’s telling her this. She couldn’t possibly care any less who he consorts with in his spare time, but she would prefer he not insult her intelligence about it.

Not that she’d ever grant him the satisfaction by admitting such a thing out loud.

“I’m sure,” she replies, toneless.

He seems to be waiting for something else – something more – from her, watching her with those relentless blue eyes, his patience unfathomable when all she can do is try not to set herself or any other part of the room on fire.

Her gaze wanders pointedly away from him until he’s caught on, politely clearing his throat. “We’ll take our leave for the night, then.” He nods his head to her, careful not to jostle Roland awake with the movement. “Your Majesty.”

They’ve gone from the room by the time she looks up again, seeing nothing but empty doorway ahead, and she stands there a moment longer before her attention is drawn back to the mountain of pine and red ribbon beside her. Ignoring the feel of Snow’s too-meddlesome eyes on her back, she trails a finger over the soft bed of leaves, feeling their needle-like tips and wishing, inexplicably, for an entire forest of pine to open up out of the ground and swallow her, soothing, into darkness.

…

Regina doesn’t have time to dwell on the thief in the days that follow, the castle a bustling racket of last-minute things and an air of general disorder that tends to precede such a large-scale event.

The garland, on her part, already hangs across every inch of available surface, spun around banisters and draped across curtains and hearths, everything sprinkled with tiny twinkling lights that brighten from afar and then gutter out whenever somebody gets too close. The lights are particularly baffling to all parties involved – “But how can a flame be so small?” and “Where’d you manage to find a plug in this joint, sister?” – with the small exception of one, Roland’s simple but enthused “It’s magic!” putting everyone else’s questions to shame.

To her everlasting exasperation, Regina gets placed on lighting duty as a result, her scowling refusal met with an equal resistance from Snow.

“I can ask the Merry Men to put up some torches instead, that might look nice,” Snow suggests, with an alarming gleam in her eye. “Or—” she adopts a tone of innocence that Regina has never found remotely convincing “—maybe there’s time for them to get us a tree? I know you would have preferred not to—”

“I’ll take care of the lights,” Regina snips, earning a radiant smile from Snow that makes her feel as though she’s lost yet again. She’s already humored her enough by agreeing to this whole heinous affair; after all of Roland’s beaming at the prospect of “Christmas,” which Snow had most deviously planted into his head, Regina simply couldn’t find it in her heart to refuse.

So she’d gamely thrown up a few festive twigs here and there, but she’d drawn the line at a fifty-foot tree, and it grates on her still that Snow could be so oblivious as to not understand why. It simply feels wrong that Christmas should not only go on as planned but do so in such a grandiose fashion, when there will be no cookies to put out before bedtime, no gifts to uncover with a jubilant “Santa was here!” while bacon sizzles on the stove…

Regina is finishing up in the ballroom, lost to her thoughts as she sends the last of the candles floating toward the ceiling, its flame safely cradled in a thin orb of glass.

“That’s quite a sight to behold,” comes a low rumbling remark from below.

His presence had come entirely unannounced, and she’s so startled by it that she loses her footing on the ladder, slipping down and landing – most mortifyingly – into Robin’s arms with a small noise of surprise. They circle around her as he stagger-steps backward, bracing her fall with the front of his torso, and she feels cold and unusually warm all at once.

She shoves him away the moment her heels touch the floor, irritated that he should look so smug when it was his fault to begin with for disrupting her balance.

“Have you not seen a candle before?” She straightens her garments, brushing out barely-there wrinkles with an affronted look in his direction.

“I have,” he says, maddeningly, his gaze never straying from hers.

“Then I fail to see why you had such a need to make a fuss,” she tells him repressively, flipping her hair back over one shoulder and folding her arms across her chest, fingertips tapping out an impatient rhythm.

“You missed a bit there,” says Robin, entirely unfazed by her grievance with him, and before she can put a stop to it he’s moving forward to catch a stray lock by her ear with his thumb, brushing it carefully back.

He drops the offending hand casually down to his side the next instant, as though nothing out of the ordinary has just happened. He smiles at her, and she stares at him, unsure how she ought to be feeling about this sudden liberty he’s taken with her.

Regina looks him up and down as though he’s hidden the answer from her somehow. He’s just come from outdoors, she realizes; there’s a rosy nip of color to his cheeks, a faint chill still clinging to his clothes that she can feel from where she stands. He looks refreshed from his walk or whatever the hell he’d been up to out there, content and untroubled by all the commotion around them, and perhaps it’s that which has made him so bold.

God knows she could do with some fresh air herself right about now, away from this place with its cloying good cheer and its sparkling resolve to forget.

Robin shifts just a little, his other hand slipping back into his cloak with a studied nonchalance that can’t go unnoticed, and the seconds seem to slow into something interminable as she stares at the glossy spiked leaves in his hand, the winking red berries as he disappears them out of her sight.

Her vision tunnels black at the edges for a long, peculiar moment.

She thinks she might be furious with him.

She’s all too aware of the fact that this thief is – admittedly – not a half-terrible one; he’s pulled one stunt too many right under her nose for her to blame it on sheer luck or coincidence alone, and she knows that he could have plucked those leaves straight out of her hair and made it look halfway convincing, had he desired it.

That he should have wanted her to see this, his badly feigned stashing away of something meant entirely to provoke a reaction from her, has her bristling with a dark need for him to look foolish for once.

“Do you have big plans for that holly?” she inquires, tone mocking.

Much to her satisfaction, a genuine flush creeps up his neck, his gaze dropping away on an abashed sort of chuckle. “Not precisely, no. It was not what I’d originally had in mind.”

“I imagine not,” she says sneeringly, and the image of him arm-in-arm with Ruby and Belle presses its way into her mind unbidden, a dangle of mistletoe and a too-innocent _Well what do we have here?_ as he smirks and they giggle, leaning in for a kiss.

Regina thins her lips together, wishing she could have been spared the unpleasantness of having to think up such thoughts. Where Robin must’ve gotten the impression that she could care in the slightest about his romantic entanglements is, quite frankly, a mystery to her.

“I suppose I’ll just have to keep trying, then,” he says lightly, with a playful sort of resignation that grates on her all over again.

She scoffs out a harsh-sounding laugh. “Good luck with that.”

Any last semblance of levity seems to withdraw from Robin’s features, something cautious taking its place. He peers carefully up at her, brows knitting together as though he’s puzzling over what could have gotten her riled up in this way.

“Will I see you at the ball this evening?” he wonders after a moment, his tone now one of polite curiosity, and she blinks at him, derailed by this new line of questioning.

“Regrettably, yes.” Her hands curl around her elbows, pulling them closer without any conscious thought for this sudden need to hold herself in.

She can’t read the look in his eyes as he asks her next, “And the odds of you favoring me with a dance?”

He’s stretched back up to his full height, but still she manages to look down her nose at him as she replies stonily, “I don’t know what would possibly compel me to do something like that.”

He nods his head to her. “I understand.”

There doesn’t seem to be anything left for him to say beyond that, and after another few heavy seconds of silence that sit strangely in Regina’s chest, he excuses himself with a final, courteous tilt of his chin.

She watches him, motionless, as he makes his way across the hall, pausing near the door when Leroy hollers his name and gestures for some assistance with a lopsided wreath that he can’t quite reach on his own. Robin’s face splits into a mischievous grin at that, and he taunts him with something good-natured that has Leroy throwing his head back, laughter all but roaring out of him as Robin kneels and pretends to offer a shoulder to spot him.

It feels cowardly, somehow, like running away by resorting to magic, but Robin and Leroy are still by the door, and – damn it – there’s Charming too, walking in now with a look like he might get ideas about coming over to make conversation with her.

Grabbing the flame from a torch as it bobbles by (“Hey!” says Happy in protest, before catching the razor-sharp edge in her eye and beating a hasty retreat), Regina pulls it to pieces with her fingertips until three dozen flickering lights are half-bursting out of her palms. She wraps them in their little glass orbs, and just as Charming has lifted his hand to her in greeting, she lets go, scattering them everywhere with a tinkling brightness that briefly shields her from view.

The air around her smokes purple, churning, and as the hall spins itself out of focus, she thinks she sees movement by the door, a flash of deep green and a head turning back, before she looks rigidly away.

…

As evening approaches, a dread she can’t place takes root in her belly, turning over and over with alarming intent until there's hardly room left for anything else.

“I shouldn't be the one reminding you to eat something,” Snow scolds her during their midday meal, piling a sizable mound of peas onto her plate. “There. Finish your vegetables, Regina.”

She might have thought to refuse her had Roland not been dragging his father toward them at that precise moment, coming to an energetic halt with the top of his head barely visible over the edge of their table.

Robin hangs behind with a perfectly bland expression while Roland grins a toothy grin, faces Regina and asks in a manner he’d clearly rehearsed, “Will you please save a dance for me today, My Majesty?”

There’s an amused little humming from Snow, and even Charming on the other side of her appears to be fighting a smile.

Regina glances up at Robin, unable to contain her surprise. He’s grimacing an apology to her, as if to say he hadn’t been the one to put his son up to this, but he needn’t have gone to the trouble of making that clear; considering the cold way she’d treated him earlier, she can’t imagine why he would want her anywhere near his child.

“Only if it’s all right with your father,” she turns back to Roland with a kind but firm voice.

Roland rounds on him in an instant, clasping his hands dramatically together and wheedling, “Please, Papa? Please?”

“Of course it’s all right, my boy,” says Robin, looking mildly taken aback that it’s even a point worth debating, and his eyes alight on Regina’s again with a bright, piercing blue she hadn’t prepared for, taking her in for a moment. His forehead creases, gaze going soft, and his lips part like he might have something more he wants to say before they’re sliding into a lopsided smile instead.

“Okay,” says Roland with a pleased air of finality, pulling Regina back together, and her eyes move away from Robin’s. Roland is looking very serious, informing her in a solemn voice, “Papa says vegetables have magic too, and they will make me tall and strong just like him someday.”

Robin clears his throat. “Perhaps we’ll let Her Majesty finish the rest of her meal in peace, yeah?”

Roland beams. “See you later, Regina!”

“I look forward to it,” she tells him, feeling Robin’s gaze on her again.

“Bye, Princess Snow,” Roland adds with a wave, proceeding down the table, “Bye Mr. Charming, bye Mr. Grumpy,” and then Robin’s nudging him gently along before they wind up saying a personal goodbye to everyone at court.

“Looks like the apple doesn't fall far from the tree,” Snow murmurs slyly under her breath once they’ve headed back to their own table. She turns to side-eye Regina in a way that's not at all subtle, a knowing smile playing outrageously at the corners of her mouth.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Regina says shortly, pricking a single pea with her fork and raising it up to her lips. She takes a bored little nibble, pointedly reaching for her water glass next when Snow opens her mouth like this conversation is anything but over.

Charming comes to her unwitting rescue then, drawing Snow’s attention away with a query about caroling selections to go with dessert at the party (Regina bites down too hard on a pea at that, her teeth clacking painfully together).

They’re still in a heated debate over sing-alongs – “Is it really necessary to write out all of these lyrics?” and “They’ve been living in the woods for the last thirty years, David, of course they won’t know the words to ‘Carol of the Bells’” – when Regina slips quietly away from the table with an empty plate in her hand.

She takes the long way back to her bedchambers, avoiding the ballroom and all its festive reminders of what lies in store for the evening. Any lingering thoughts she’d entertained of skipping out on the ball altogether are rather pointless now that’s she promised Roland a dance, and the reality of it begins to settle like a deep ache in her bones, that Christmas is happening whether she likes it or not.

…

One dance. She’ll dance the one dance, and stay long enough to turn Robin down when he invariably tries to cut in.

That is, if he were anywhere to be found at the moment.

She’d seen him only briefly at dinner, glancing toward his corner of the banquet hall just in time to catch the Merry Men welcoming their two newest members, installing a rosy-cheeked Ruby next to Robin with Belle bouncing a joyful Roland up and down in her lap one bench over. They’d all clinked out a boisterous toast, goblets overflowing with the mulled apple cider that Granny had coerced Regina into whipping up last-minute when Leroy’s “special home brew” failed to pan out.

She’d picked at her roast quail, the butternut squash and the stuffed sweet potato, tightly smiling her way through conversation with Snow and Charming whenever they thought to pause in their murmuring sweet nothings to one another. She’d occupied herself by toying with the centerpieces, leafy red and white poinsettias that she painted gradients of pink with a bored little swirl of her fingertip. Her own goblet had sat untouched, irritation prickling her whenever her eyes fell to the sprig of holly someone had tied around its slender glass stem.

By the time Regina looked up again Robin and his party were already halfway relocated toward the ballroom, wielding a variety of instruments that she couldn’t recognize apart from Friar Tuck’s lute and Little John’s set of what looked to be matching mini-tambourines.

A concert of sorts is well underway when Snow and Charming eventually head into the ballroom themselves, Regina trailing begrudgingly in just behind them. The twinkling garland and the ceiling of candlelight have cast everything in a soft, hazy glow, the sharp scent of pine all around them.

A makeshift campfire sits in each corner, their flames childproofed with voluminous bubble-like shields that shimmer and bob upon contact. Small dessert tables have been set up nearby, each one manned by a dwarf in charge of distributing speared sticks of marshmallow for toasting over the fire.

“Regina, this looks amazing,” says Charming while Snow’s mouth drops wordlessly open, and it doesn’t feel quite like work this time when Regina graces them both with a smile.

She’s loitering by the refreshments when Roland comes to cash in on the dance that she owes him. She thumbs off a smearing of chocolate from his cheek as he chews on the last of his marshmallow, explaining to her in detail how perfectly roasty and brown it had gotten on the outside.

Little John, she’s noticed, has ambled up to the table while keeping an eye on the boy, and when she nods that she’s got him he salutes to her with one of his jangling tambourines, shuffling off to rejoin his band.

Once she’s gotten Roland suitably cleaned up, she lets him pull her by the hand to the middle of the floor, curtsying gamely when he nearly doubles himself over in a very grand bow. They’re surrounded by a blur of couples, dancing out the intricate steps to folk songs that Regina finds just as foreign as the rustic contraptions strumming them out.

Immune to the rush of movement around them, Roland tugs her gleefully about in spirited little spins, looking thrilled when she does a showy sort of half-crouched twirl beneath his arms. She’d forgone her usual leather and velvet specifically for this purpose, dressing instead in something soft and breathable that tumbles down in an ankle-length flourish.

“That’s a handsome dance partner you got there,” Ruby’s voice rings out, and there’s a sparkling swish of crimson as she whirls past them on Will Scarlet’s arm.

Regina is turning around on instinct, only half-aware of what’s she doing until she’s skimmed over the crowds and not found him. Belle is fairly easy to spot, currently being spun by another one of the Merry Men nearby, but their leader is conspicuously nowhere in sight, and that pit of dread flares up full-force as it occurs to Regina that she knows exactly what he must be doing out there.

She’s passed a blissfully wiped-out Roland back into Little John’s care, tended to the fire bubbles, and endured several awkward civilities with Snow’s dwarves in the process by the time Robin finally reappears.

He’s been in the woods again, just as she’d suspected, untying his cloak and draping it over one of the hooks by the door as Ruby and Belle shimmy over to greet him. He smiles at them, but it doesn’t touch his eyes in quite the same way as it normally does, something disheartened in it as he turns up empty palms at them.

There’s a collective swell of sympathy around him, Ruby touching his arm as Belle rubs a hand over his shoulder, and then Ruby is raising her goblet with a coyly arched eyebrow, standing on tiptoe and laughingly pressing a kiss to Robin’s cheek.

They’ll be making their way onto the dance floor soon enough, Regina thinks, shifting grimly back toward the refreshments with half a mind to rip the stupid holly from every last goblet and burn them all into crisps.

She’s endeavoring to curb her more violent impulses when she hears him, the sound of his voice alarmingly close all of a sudden, and she turns to see him approach with a full, easy smile for her.

“It appears that I’ve missed the big dance.”

She glances away. “Oh? I hadn’t noticed.”

He helps himself to a drink, and she stiffens when his arm brushes past hers for a moment. He leans his back against the table, resting his hand but a hair’s breadth from hers as he surveys the crowd and she continues to glare at the goblets in front of her.

When he speaks again the words come from low in his throat, pleasantly rough around the edges as he inclines his head toward her. “You look unspeakably lovely tonight, by the way.”

She touches a hand to her hair without thinking, feeling a traitorous warmth open up in her chest. She’d left it all down in waves for Roland, knowing how he likes to play with the ends whenever he can get close enough to reach, and she’s absurdly grateful for the way it curtains around her now, obscuring the flush in her cheeks from view.

“Well,” she recovers quickly, making a vaguely disdainful gesture at him, “you look…barely recognizable.”

Robin chuckles at that. “The Prince was kind enough to lend me some of his things.”

“‘Kind’ is one word for it.”

“You don’t approve?” He sounds amused.

“I see no need for costumes,” she tells him curtly. “All Hallows’ Day has already passed.”

It doesn’t quite land like the insult she’d intended it to be, Robin only “Ah”ing with that unshakeable smile of his, and she’s at a loss for what else to say. She tears her gaze away again, trying not to observe too closely how Charming’s navy-colored doublet folds flatteringly around Robin’s form, or how it brings out all that blue in his eyes when he looks at her the way he is now.

He twists toward the table, leaning into her ever so slightly to set his glass down, and she catches faint traces of Charming’s scented oils on his clothes, bergamot and some rich kind of spice that threatens to overpower her senses. When he straightens back around, however, he smells briefly like Robin again, and she simply breathes in all that fresh air and pine for a moment, almost forgetting herself as he bumps their shoulders together.

But then he’s gazing back out at the dance floor, and she doesn’t have to turn to know that the other girls can’t be far off, perhaps wondering themselves why he’s chosen to linger as long as he has with her when they’ve clearly been waiting for him.

Her fingers inch toward a goblet, letting the spike-tipped holly dig into the pad of her thumb.

The movement catches his eye, and there’s a playful lilt to his tone as he confesses to her, “I thought I may as well make some use of them, considering how spectacularly they failed me in other regards.”

The words are exploding from her before she can smooth out the anger in them. “You do realize that mistletoe doesn’t actually grow here, don’t you?”

There’s a pause as he absorbs the heat of her outburst, his voice perfectly even when he replies, “I hadn’t been aware of that, no.”

“Well now you are.” She rips the holly clean off its stem, crushing it into a fist. “So you can stop with your sad little attempts at wooing everything female in sight – it’s become rather tiring to watch, quite frankly.”

Robin is no longer smiling when she’s managed to summon another scathing look in his direction. He sounds oddly pained as he asks her, “Is that what you think this was about?”

“On the contrary,” she all but snarls at him, “I don’t make a habit of wasting my time _thinking_ things about you and your… _urges_ ,” that last word spit out like it’s something unsavory to her, and Robin stares at her as though she’s grown two extra heads, his mouth opening in a sort of speechless disbelief before clenching shut.

“I’d presumed no such thing,” he says at last, his tone cooler than she’s ever heard it before, and it numbs something inside of her, everything turning to stone. “But thank you, for the clarification. You’ve made your thoughts more than apparent on the matter.”

Regina squares her shoulders at him, willing her tongue to unstick and scorn him some more, but she can’t seem to call up any of her earlier rage, not when he’s looking at her as though she’s someone he can hardly recognize either.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” Robin bows at her, all the unreserved warmth of his features drained into blankness as he rises and captures her gaze with his own. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

She whirls back to the table, gripping blindly for those torn bits of holly and wishing, with a desperation she’s not sure she’s ready to understand, that she could un-see that empty look on his face as he turned and walked away from her.

…

She hasn’t made it far from the ballroom when she hears the soft padding of footfalls behind her, and something sprouts wings in her chest as she spins around to face him, an apology already half-formed on her lips.

“Hey,” says Snow, and Regina swallows it back, features hardening to hide the disappointment that must have been showing.

“Yes?” she asks, tone clipped.

“You’re leaving?”

“Your powers of observation really are nothing short of astounding.”

“Because in that case,” Snow carries on without even batting an eye, “I have something I wanted to give you, for tomorrow.” She shrugs when Regina blinks incredulously at her. “There was no Christmas tree to put it under, so…”

“Can you please be done bringing that up?” Regina’s biting tiredly out as Snow takes a step forward, pressing a cushiony bundle of fabric into her arms. “What is so important that it couldn’t wait until—”

 _Never_ , is what she’d been about to say, but the words drift into a bewildered silence as Regina untucks a corner, slowly folding it back.

A large, blanket-like square comes tumbling out of her hands, stretching nearly to the floor as she lifts it up by the edges. It’s patterned with wide stripes, red alternating with grey, the wool thick and terribly soft as Regina touches one side to her cheek, her mouth, the tip of her nose.

It smells like coming home.

“I thought it might be a good addition to storytime with Roland,” Snow is saying, her voice barely audible over the swelling ache in Regina’s chest, rising up to her ears and blurring out the corners of her vision. “Speaking of which…”

Regina is busily gathering the blanket back into her arms, trying to blink away that burning sensation in her eyes. “What?”

“I also wanted to ask if you were okay,” Snow tells her, in that tone of heavy gentleness Regina so usually loathes to hear out of her, though she finds she doesn’t have the heart to feel bothered by that at the moment.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I saw you and Robin talking, back there.”

Regina sees that once-molten blue, taking all the warmth with him as he turned his back to her, and she shifts the blanket a little closer, tightening her grip. “What about it?”

“I don’t think Roland was the only one pining for a dance with you.”

Regina shakes her head. “You must be confused.”

“I think we both know that’s not true,” Snow admonishes lightly, “and we both know a certain someone who would agree with me, if he were here.”

After a long, miserable pause that Regina makes a point not to fill, Snow sighs and concedes for the time being. “Anyway. Merry Christmas, Regina.” She squeezes her arm before turning to go.

Regina fingers the yarn work, tracing its loops and thinking of another life, another Christmas, where her heart is whole and it wouldn’t be wrong to hope for these things that Snow seems to believe should come so easily to her.

“I didn’t get you anything,” she hears herself saying.

Snow looks back at Regina, with a slow-spreading smile that makes her face glow. “Just think about what I said,” she offers, eyes too kind and too knowing at once. “That can be your gift to me.”

Regina continues to stand there long after she’s slipped out of sight down the hallway. She gently touches the blanket to her face again, her world a sea of red and grey for a moment before she folds it carefully back up in her arms.

…

It occurs to her that she has no earthly clue where Robin has even been staying these past many months in her castle. He and his men have laid claim to the lower quarters, she knows, those rooms that her servants had once occupied what feels like another lifetime ago. Beyond that, however, she’s sure she wouldn’t be able to tell any of the rooms apart, and it seems highly unlikely his men would’ve thought to label their doorways.

Robin had explained it to her once, when she questioned their choices, how they preferred the simplicity of these quarters – the welcome bareness of all this space without any of those additional luxuries he’s certain none of them would know quite what to do with anyway.

“Besides,” he’d leaned in with a smirk, “that way you needn’t worry about any of us helping ourselves to your things.”

(She’d never worried, but it seemed unwise to correct him when he was already so determined to show his amusement with her.)

Regina had insisted that he at least consider one of the upstairs chambers, with a terrace garden Roland could play in during the summertime, and a separate bath to afford them some privacy, which Robin had politely declined (“We are greatly indebted to you, Your Majesty; this is already more than we ever could have asked for”).

She’d renewed her offer of the upper floors when winter began to settle around the castle, pointing out their superior heating, but still he continued to refuse her – “It’s not so terrible down there,” he’d said, tone winking, “if you wanted to stop by and see for yourself some time” – and so here she stands now, helplessly glaring as a corridor of identically unmarked doorways looms into darkness ahead of her.

She’d waited for the sounds of the ball to dwindle before venturing back out of her own rooms – not for fear of being discovered by someone else on the way, not quite that, but of some truly distressing notion that she wouldn’t find him alone.

Still, the prospect of making door-to-door inquiries after Robin, particularly at this late an hour, is less than appealing to her. Not to mention the fact that all the things she needs him to hear have, inconveniently, eluded her as to how exactly she plans on saying them.

Regina takes a step forward, grimacing to hear how it echoes off the damply chilled walls. She loiters at each door, scrutinizing them as though some sign will appear if she stares hard enough.

She’s strongly considering the use of a quick locator spell when she nearly walks right into it – a little white spruce that comes barely up to her knee, tucked back against the wall beside an otherwise unremarkable doorway.

It’s a spindly thing with short, stunted limbs, sparsely covered in yellow-tipped needles – rescued, she thinks, from a winter it would not have likely survived – but there’s a charm to it too that Regina couldn’t deny if she tried. A knot of small gifts lies crammed underneath it, brown paper packages with _To Roland From_ — scrawled onto their sides. A menagerie of small wooden animals has taken up residence between the branches, whittled out lions and foxes prowling about while barn owls and doves soar around them.

And there, at the top of the tree where a star should have been, someone has thought to place a single shoot of holly.

She knocks on the door before she can talk herself out of it.

There’s a pause, her heart thundering madly, and then she hears a shuffling sound from within. The door cracks open, spilling out a dim candlelit glow into the gloom of the hallway.

“Regina?”

Robin is suddenly standing before her, his everything silhouetted in light, and she has to blink several times before her eyes can fully adjust to him there. He looks mildly astonished but not, she thinks, displeased to see her, shoulders loosening as he lets the door swing back a bit further.

He’s changed out of his ballroom attire into a simple cotton tunic, its neckline opening into a deep vee down his chest, shirt cuffs rucked carelessly up his forearms. He doesn’t smell all wrong anymore, though she can still see Charming’s clothes hanging from a rack just inside, and she’s sorely tempted to dispose of them in a way that may or may not involve fire.

There’s a hint of movement deeper into the room, and she spots a Roland-sized lump in the shadows, slumbering soundly away on one of the bed pallets.

“I’m sorry,” says Regina, feeling appropriately dismayed, “Roland’s asleep, and I – I shouldn’t have come.”

“No, it’s quite all right,” Robin cuts in immediately, and he slips through the doorway, gently latching it closed behind him. His forehead wrinkles with concern while he looks her over, as though he can’t fathom why she would turn up like this short of some life-threatening event, and, well, she supposes she can’t fault him for that. “Is something the matter?”

She shakes her head, unsure how to answer that question.

Robin frowns. “You’re trembling,” he states, and his hands flex ever so slightly down by his sides, a strained sort of movement before going still again, as though he’d been about to reach for her.

“It is a little chilly in here,” she tells him, feeling a peculiar leap in her chest when Robin’s eyes crinkle at her.

“Now where have I heard that one before?” he teases her lightly, crossing his arms and leaning his weight into the door.

She rolls her eyes, glancing away before she can smile back at him. “I wasn’t wrong.”

“I think that’s debatable,” he counters easily, dimples deepening when she huffs out a small exasperated noise.

“Well,” she says in a quiet, stilted voice, “I suppose not all of us can be warm-blooded like you.”

Robin seems perturbed by her admission, brows drawing together as that smile of his flickers out. “That’s not how I see things, Regina.” He waits for her to look at him again, voice low and firm as he tells her, “Not from where I’m standing.”

Regina can only stare at him, overwhelmed for a moment, at a loss for how she can even respond. She’d come to apologize, but here he is with all of his kindness instead, his warmth and his nature to be uncommonly gentle with her, as though she deserves nothing less.

She stands rooted there, gazing up at him with something like shyness and something like shame, and then she gives the tiniest shake of her head again when words continue to fail her.

Robin seems to read her struggle without comment, clearing his throat to casually relieve all the silence. “So,” he says, something mischievous in his tone as he uncrosses his arms to gesture toward her. “Are you going to tell me what you have planned for that holly you’ve stolen off of my tree?”

He’s biting back another smile – he seems to have some never-ending supply of those, with her – as she blinks down at the holly in her hands. “Yes, actually.” The words have to scrape their way out, and she swallows before going on. “I wanted you to have this.”

She holds out her hand to him, and the fine-pointed leaves begin to round out their edges, their glossiness fading into a fuzzy-soft texture. The holly berries lose their bright red hue, a pale yellow-green coloring their surfaces instead.

“Mistletoe,” Regina explains to him needlessly, everything inside of her giving a lurch that’s not altogether unpleasant when Robin stares back at her, wondering.

She presses her hand into the space between them, indicating for him to take it, but still he doesn’t move, only gazing down at the plant again before fixing her with those blue, depthless eyes.

Her throat is dry as she tells him, “Now you can go and kiss whomever you like.”

Robin tilts his head interestedly at her. “Anyone?”

She’s finding it increasingly difficult to read him.

“Yes,” she says, feeling rigid all over, “I believe that’s the idea.”

The air has thinned, and she can’t seem to quite catch her breath as he takes a step closer to her. He guides his palm beneath her hand, gently cradling there, bringing his thumb around to touch one of the mistletoe leaves.

“You know,” he says then, his tone unbearably light, “I’m not actually sure how this is supposed to work.”

Regina glances up at him, too flustered to pass it off as something else, but then the look in his eyes is making it hard for her to feel anything but warm, so warm, and so terribly endless.

His voice is slightly hoarse as he tells her, “You may have to show me.”

She’s swaying forward without any memory of losing her balance, her head more than dizzy when he places a hand at the small of her back to steady her.

“It’s not meant to be difficult,” she hears herself say, half-scowling, half-breathless already, her hands now caught rather uselessly against his chest to keep from leaning any further into him. “You stand under it and—”

“Like this?” he husks, and he shifts over her until the bridge of his nose is just grazing her eyebrow.

“Not…no, not exactly,” she says, barely above a whisper, and her eyes flutter closed.

She’s not sure who moves first, but his mouth is on hers the next moment, a tender press of heat that seems to last only seconds, pulling away from her much too soon. He drops his forehead to hers, and she feels his shoulders rise and fall with a ragged exhale before he’s gathering her back to him, as though unable to keep from kissing her again.

He captures their lips more firmly together, holding her steady as he kisses and kisses her, deep feverish things that feel like a promise to carry her away. The ache of their burn shudders through her, and she opens her mouth to his with a sigh, losing her breath and perhaps another small shard of her heart to him each time he draws back and looks at her like he may never let go.

He drags his fingers through her hair, cupping the side of her neck in his palm and angling her closer. His mouth slants over hers, moving with a scorching intensity as their tongues slide together and tangle. His thumb sweeps with an exquisite tenderness over her jawline, her cheek, and the way that he’s holding her, the intimacy of him wanting to know her like this, is almost more than she can bear.

They’re both more than winded by the time they part again, lips hovering back together as the sharpness in their breathing starts to even out into something not quite so dizzyingly shallow. Robin nuzzles his nose into her cheek with a quiet little groan, his stubble scratching over her skin as he ghosts another kiss to the shell of her ear.

Her hands tighten their grip on his tunic collar, where the sprig of mistletoe has been all but crushed into one of them, drooping and half-forgotten.

“I think we’d better try that once more, don’t you?” Robin murmurs, his voice a bit raw, and she shivers into him. “To make sure it’s still working properly.”

“I think it worked just fine,” she says, not without her own touch of eye-rolling playfulness. He grins a bit naughtily at her, and the swooping sensation that tugs at her belly in answer makes her feel impossibly young.

“Do you, now?” he wants to know, with a boyish sort of smugness that somehow makes him all the more desirable to her.

Her heels rise off the floor as he pulls her back into him, hands spreading heat up and down her spine until she can’t help but shiver again. The lower half of his body is pressed invitingly against hers, but still she braces her arms to his chest, not willing – not ready – to let herself have all of him, all of this, in the way that she so dangerously wants.

She’s wandered too boldly to the edge of some precipice, daring to know what happiness feels like, but she can’t bring herself to think on how she will pay for this later. Not yet.

Not now.

Robin’s smiling down at her with a sky full of blue in his eyes, looking very much like he wants to kiss her some more – and oh how she would let him – but as she brushes her mouth against his, there’s a distant scuffling behind the door, followed by a sluggish yet plaintive “Papa?” that makes them freeze together, chagrined.

Neither of them seem willing to move away first, but then Roland is calling out sleepily again, and Robin concedes with a sag of his shoulders, stealing one last kiss before releasing her from him.

He rests against the doorjamb, taking a minute simply to soak up the sight of her, and Regina looks away when she can no longer contain her smile from him, feeling warm in more ways than one as Robin gives the door a reluctant nudge open.

“Good night, Regina.”

“Thief,” she returns, and his teeth dig enticingly into his lower lip before he’s slipping back inside, carefully shutting the door behind him.

She’s turning to go when the tree gives her pause. It looks a little more melancholy now without that wink of holly up top, and she tilts her head, considering what else it might be missing.

She breaks off a needle of spruce when she’s finished, lifting it gingerly up to her nose and letting the scent of the forest accompany her all the way back to her rooms.

…

Breakfast in the dining hall the following morning is – as to be expected – an elaborate retelling of the prior evening’s events, how Little John misplaced a tambourine bell, and how Leroy had the misfortune of finding it, after nearly cracking a tooth on a marshmallow.

How one very elated Roland had woken to find a “real life star” on top of his tree, not to mention the gift a “Mr. St. Nick” must have left him on his chimney travels, as it was the only one that hadn’t been labeled, and how he couldn’t wait to show his new book of stories to Regina.

And then Robin, looking entirely too handsome for his own good, gazing warmly at her over a cup of freshly brewed coffee, a world of unspoken things in his eyes meant only for her to know.

She must be gazing just as distractedly back, because Ruby is suddenly sauntering by with a brassy-loud “Well, it’s about damn time” and a look of sly comprehension at Belle.

Regina senses Snow straighten at that, but before she can get any ideas about prying for more – already raising a hand with a soft “Shush!” at an oblivious Charming beside her – Regina raises her own mug and takes a studious sip, feigning ignorance while Snow beams aggressively in her direction.

She keeps her eyes trained on her plate after that, though her mind wanders and wanders to join him again through the rest of the meal. She excuses herself from the table when she can no longer stand to hold back any longer, feeling Robin’s gaze swing around to follow her careful departure out of the hall.

She’s chosen to linger by a stairwell when he comes in search of her, pretending to fuss with a bit of garland that’s come undone from the banister.

“Your Majesty.”

Regina smiles without turning, idly plucking up a loose pine cone and melting its wax with a fingertip before pressing it back into place. “Robin.”

She doesn’t hear him approach, but the new warmth that surrounds her is unmistakably his, and it would be such a waste, really, not to bask in it for a short while.

“Can I help you?” she inquires, all lofty innocence as she turns to address him.

His attention has caught near the side of her head, brow furrowing slightly as he murmurs to her, “You’ve got a bit of something right…” He lifts his hand with a _May I?_ expression before reaching just past the line of her vision, fingertips grazing her hair. “There,” he breathes after a moment, and a familiar spray of round, green-berried leaves blooms into view as he pulls his hand away.

Regina blinks accusingly at him, feeling quite nettled at how thoroughly she’d let herself walk into this. “You—you _stole_ that from me!”

“Begging your pardon,” says Robin, in the tone of one deeply wounded, “but how could I have stolen something that was intended for me as a gift?”

Her lips thin disapprovingly at him, but she’s charmed in spite of herself, that treacherous thing in her chest taking flight as he snakes an arm around her waist and tugs her against him, looking triumphant.

Still she refuses to fully soften for him until he’s pointedly directing her gaze to that plant, and then she can no longer _not_ kiss him, it seems, when he’s smiling like this, just for her.

She’ll blame it on the mistletoe later, she thinks, relaxing into him with a content little sound as he touches his lips back to hers.

Later. Yes. Perhaps then.


End file.
